


Keep On Falling

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beach Sex, Biting, Camping, First Kiss, First Time, Human Dean, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Size Kink, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Camped out in the woods in North Carolina, Dean happens upon Castiel in Nantahala Lake, cleaning his wings.





	Keep On Falling

In his many, many years of hunting, Dean has never grown used to camping. Sure, he’s had to set up tents in the middle of nowhere before, and on countless occasions, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotten used to passing out in a sleeping bag and digging a hole behind trees. Mosquitos are his nemesis in these situations, and in their downtime, he and Sam would hold competitions to see who could light the most on fire using Pam and a lighter, just to pass the hours.

Now, there’s no cooking spray, and there’s no flames. All Dean, Sam and Castiel have between them is a four-person tent from the Bunker, a few rolled up coats, and two blankets. Outside, their fire pit smolders, even with the water Castiel poured on it an hour ago. The night air, normally a reprieve from the heat of the day, hangs thick inside, seeping in through the vent flaps at the top and permeating everything it touches.

Fitfully through the night, Dean sleeps on top of both blankets in nothing but a threadbare t-shirt and his boxers, while the humidity threatens to eat him alive. His only saving grace, that Sam is a heavy sleeper and Castiel doesn’t necessarily need to sleep. Although, he does have creepily meditating in the corner going for him.

Sweat pools in every hollow that it can, lining Dean’s collar and the dip in his throat, along his eyelids, just beneath his waistband. In any other situation, he would strip it all off and sleep beneath a thin sheet, enough to spare Sam, and most recently, Castiel. But he can’t here, as much as he wants to get naked or sleep in the lake nearby. Anything, if it meant he wasn’t soaking in his own sweat.

They really should’ve bought new ice packs at Walmart; even one of those hidden in the cooler would be a godsend at this point.

“The temperature should drop in an hour,” Castiel whispers softly, only audible because Dean’s awake and half a second away from ripping his shirt off. “Considerably so. There’s a cold front moving through.”

Relief rushes through Dean, but Castiel’s words offer little more than assurances. He still has to sit there for an hour, fever-hot and uncomfortable and sorely wishing they would’ve rented out a lodge on the lake. A few hundred dollars a night would be worth not having to slum it in God-knows-where North Carolina. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Dean asks, halfhearted. He tilts his head back to watch Castiel, Castiel never once opening his eyes or doing much else than sit in the corner, crosslegged with his head hung low.

“Shouldn’t you?” Castiel shoots back, deadpan as ever; Dean rolls his eyes and struggles not to scream, or punch him, or something. “Don’t think about it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean huffs. “You’re still wearing your damn coat.”

“Think of a stream,” Castiel suggests.

“Unless you think I need to piss, forget it.”

Castiel lets out a long, hollowing breath through his nose. “Run your hands through the waters. Mid-April. Snow melt from the north, they’re beginning to thaw from a particularly harsh winter. Cold enough to keep anyone from venturing in too deep, but you still kneel, pass your fingers through the stream.”

As much as he hates the power of suggestion crap, Dean leans back and closes his eyes, imagines the scene. West Virginia, back when he and Sam were kids. Dad left them for an hour to scout out where the werewolf may have been hiding. Meanwhile, Sam dragged Dean to the stream a few yards away. Vividly, he remembers the ecstatic face Sam made, and the water babbling on the rocks. Three large boulders sat in the middle of the river, maybe fifteen feet wide, but far enough for both of them to have to stumble through the rushing waters to reach them.

They sat there, in the middle of the river, until John found them. Sam shivered so hard his teeth rattled, and Dean held him close, head lifted to the sun. A moment’s peace, but one that carries Dean to sleep, blackness swallowing him whole until the humidity is forgotten and all he feels is the night.

Morning comes with a rush of cold air pouring in through the tent flaps and effectively silencing every qualm Dean had about the weather hours before. He’s downright frigid, enough so to blindly reach for his jeans shoved off in the corner, just to keep from freezing. Through the last vestiges of sleep, Dean finds himself alone in the tent; the roar of the fire outside accompanies the absence, and the smell of bacon wafts in, a downright assault to his senses.

Dean’s stomach growls, threatening to alert the wildlife.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” Sam says after Dean peeks his head through the flaps, flipping silver dollar pancakes on the griddle and turning over bacon and ham. The one thing Dean didn’t talk Sam out of at Walmart—cooking supplies. “What time did you conk out?”

Bare footed, Dean leaves the tent and grabs a paper plate and a plastic fork from atop their cooler, hurriedly stabbing at a slab of ham. No eggs, but it’s probably for the best. “Probably eleven,” Dean says, loading up his plate with pancakes. “I don’t see how you can sleep in this weather.”

“I’d figure you’d be used to it,” Sam chuckles. He spears the remnants of ham on his plate and pops it into his mouth. “Didn’t think August would be this hectic.”

“It’s the south, weather’s always crazy,” Dean shrugs. “You got anymore pancakes?”

Sam shakes the yellow Bisquick container at his side. “Don’t eat yourself sick like last time.”

Dean waves him off with a smile. “Hey,” he starts after a while, “you see Cas this morning?”

“He’s in the lake,” Sam mumbles through a mouthful of pancake. “Said something about wanting to clean his wings? I didn’t ask.”

Wings—right, the wings. The wings Dean has seen as glimpses around hallway corners and the black feathers he’s found strewn across the bathroom floor, and in one instance, underneath his pillow. Not that Dean will ever admit to keeping it there, but the fact still stands. Castiel has wings, and Castiel has escaped to the lake to do… whatever he does with them. Namely clog the drains and dirty up their perfectly tidy rooms.

“I’m gonna go find him,” Dean announces after he’s eaten his fill and Sam has rinsed off the griddle with a water bottle. “See if he wants to find out where this pack is hiding or if he’s gonna turn into a duck.”

“He’s not a duck,” Sam spouts; Dean just laughs. “I’ll go with you, if you want?”

“I’m good,” Dean hums. “I put up the tent, you figure out how to fold it.”

Sam’s resounding “Ugh, you ass” is the best sound he’s heard all morning.

Nantahala Lake sits about half a mile from their campsite, past the pines and a few scattered oaks, kudzu and vines winding up their trunks and reaching into the canopy. Peaceful, with a light breeze rustling the leaves and squirrels darting from the forest floor into the branches. A doe and her fawn watch from a distance, tails twitching. If he had to put a word to it, he might call it tranquility, or false security.

Either way, Dean forgets everything the moment he spots Castiel through the trees, wading waist-deep in the lake with his wings at full span. They’re huge, even at a distance, pure black feathers tapering to cobalt blue at the tips of his primaries, a few brilliantly silver; white specks dot the entire span, resembling stars, or maybe galaxies. For a while, Dean watches him, Castiel cupping water and wetting his top arch, fingers digging into the bones there and massaging. A few feathers come free when he runs his fingers through them, those considerably grayer and worn.

Slipping his shoes off at the tree line, Dean seats himself in the sand and crosses his legs, in awe. Knowing that this is Castiel doesn’t escape him; in fact, it only keeps him more enrapt, eyes watching Castiel’s every move, the gentle glide of water across impressive plumage, the ripples his wings create with every shift of hidden muscle. Humans have witnessed Angels in the past, sure, but whether they’ve seen an Angel bathing is another question entirely.

Slowly, Castiel sinks underneath the surface to wet his hair, wings submerging fully; he rises after a short while, shaking the water from his feathers and running his hands through his hair. Dean’s face heats even more just from watching him: tanned skin soaked and gleaming in the sun, the dark trail of hair beneath his navel, the unearthly light in his eyes when he finally lifts his head.

“Dean,” Castiel says, not at all afraid; rather, he smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Dean looks down on instinct, out of fear of being caught ogling and Angel—and his best friend, at that. “Did you want something?”

Castiel treads the lake bottom as he walks towards the shore, stirring up silt and shells; this time, Dean does look away, but for an entirely different reason. “I’m fine,” he sputters, shame-faced and horrified. _Don’t look at his dick, don’t look at his stupidly massive dick_ —“Figured it’s time to get a move on, is all.”

At that, Castiel lets out a thoughtful hum and, only his feet covered by the water,  stretches his arms above his head. Dean might explode before Castiel gets his clothes back on; the situation in his pants isn’t any better. “You should join me,” Castiel says mid-groan, a sound that immediately goes to Dean’s cock. “I can’t reach the back of my wings, and since you’re here…”

Right, wings. Wings are why he’s here, not the depraved thoughts currently running through his head. Maybe if he can get his hands in those feathers, he can calm down enough to stop wanting to commit every blasphemy known to man. His only problem, getting his pants off while half-hard. “You mean—where?” Dean sputters, just as Castiel bends over to touch his toes, wings giving a generous flap overhead. “Like, here, or—”

“I was thinking in the lake,” Castiel grunts, standing again.

Even with the distance between them, maybe five feet at the most, Dean can’t help but stare, specifically between his legs. Sure, he’s seen Castiel naked once before, but that was different, lost in hysteria and covered in honey. This is considerably safer, with less bees and more exposed skin, and Castiel’s apparently monstrous cock, soft but still thick, with a slight bulge at the base; maybe it’s an Angel thing. Dean wouldn’t know, considering the currently negative number of male Angels he’s taken to bed.

Only when Castiel’s wings flap again does Dean realize that he’s overtly staring, and that Castiel is watching him, head cocked and eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?” he asks, extending a hand to Dean; Dean takes it, just for something to do that doesn’t involve wondering how much of Castiel’s cock he could fit in his mouth. “You’re flushed.”

Dean swallows, shaking his head. If he ignores that anything ever happened, then maybe Castiel will leave it be. Though, his mouth is apparently intent on working faster than his brain, and he blurts, “Why is your dick so…” before he can stop himself. Shame kills his erection before he has to start thinking about crying kittens and singing In the Arms of An Angel.

Briefly, Castiel looks down at himself, inquisitive; he takes himself in hand, an action Dean pointedly doesn’t admit to watching. “I have a knot,” Castiel says, blasé, like it’s normal and not a serious medical condition.

“Isn’t that—Do you need to go to the doctor?” Dean asks, flustered and halfway to covering his eyes with his hand. This isn’t happening. They aren’t discussing Castiel’s dick while Castiel is naked and Dean is red down to his toes.

Castiel chuckles, low; his wings twitch, tucking in close to his back, the longest feathers still scraping the sand. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he soothes, brushing his hand over Dean’s shoulder, warm through his shirt. “It’s an… angel thing, as you would say. It swells when I’m aroused.”

Dean blinks, wary. “But why?” God, he just woke up thirty minutes ago. This is too much information for so early in the morning.

“Breeding,” Castiel shrugs; the dots in his wings shift, rotating almost in time with the stars. “It helps us stay close after orgasm, and promotes the chance of catching.”

“What, like, it goes—”

“Inside, typically.” Another shrug; Dean feels lightheaded. This is too weird, and nothing he’s ever heard of before; every fantasy he’s ever had in the privacy of his own bedroom has been shattered and replaced with something so foreign yet so arousing. “Will you help me clean my wings?”

“Sure—Yeah, sure,” Dean mutters, all he can manage to do. They can talk about it another time, when Dean’s had more than bottled water to drink. Coffee, maybe; alcohol, definitely.

While Castiel reenters the lake, Dean shucks off his shirt and goes for the fly of his jeans; afterwards, he tugs his boxers and socks off, leaving them in a pile next to an oak, hopefully a good distance away from the water’s edge. Thankfully with their strange discussion, Dean’s dick has finally calmed, no longer in danger of embarrassing himself in front of Castiel. He has the sneaking suspicion though, if he ever was hard in front of him, Castiel would just ignore it and go on with whatever he was doing.

Unless, cleaning his wings is an invitation. Whatever the reason, Dean ignores it and dips his toes into the water, immediately overcome by the chill. Not the best idea, but maybe if he catches a cold or something, Castiel can heal him; this was Castiel’s idea, anyway.

About two feet into the lake, Castiel sits, both wings outstretched and rising a few feet out of the water. From a distance, they’re massive; up close, they’re overwhelmingly large. The shortest feathers, resting close to Castiel’s back, are the size of Dean’s palm and blood-warm, almost scalding to the touch. Dean sits behind him, the water covering his waist up to his navel, and begins to work, not necessarily knowing what he’s doing. But Castiel seems to appreciate it enough, never once pushing him away or admonishing him.

In fact, Castiel is downright enthralled, but silent in his revelry; his wings arch into every press of Dean’s hands, every gentle brush of his fingers through numerous feathers. Sometimes, the stars glide across his fingertips, almost drawn to him, like moths. “The ones that fall out,” Dean mentions, hyperaware that Castiel is watching him through closed eyes, “can we use them? For spells.”

“Possibly,” Castiel sighs; his back ripples when he stretches his wings, the tips of his primaries raking the sky. Possibly ten feet, maybe twelve to each side at their shortest, the longest feather even longer than his arm. Nothing about him is human; Dean hates that he underestimated that. “It’s better to use them while they’re alive, and preferably at the moment of casting. Dead feathers still have Grace, but they’re more suited for bookmarks.”

Huh. “Good to know,” Dean mutters, and resumes his task.

Something wet seeps from between Castiel’s tertiary feathers, smelling faintly of musk and vanilla, offsetting the scent of lakewater. Given the chance, and Dean would bury his face in it, or make it into a candle. As of now, he traces the source and finds three swollen knots at the base of each wing, all weeping copious amounts of the stuff, wetting his fingers like oil. “Are you supposed to be leaking?” Dean asks, in time to hear Castiel moan—an actual, honest to God moan, emanating deep from within Castiel’s chest. “…Cas, are you—”

“Don’t stop,” Castiel rumbles; like Dean would even want to.

The atmosphere between them, once mildly platonic and mission-guided, goes south faster than Dean can comprehend; Castiel next to thrashes in his hands, wings suddenly twitching in a failing attempt to both drag Dean closer and push him away. All the while, Dean runs his slick fingers through Castiel’s feathers, leaving wet smears in his wake. Tugging on them forces moans from Castiel’s throat; kissing between his wings causes him to reach back and grab hold of Dean’s knees, nails digging into chilled skin.

“Cas,” Dean says, close to Castiel’s ear; his heart races in his chest, and his fingers tremble, but he can’t stop himself from touching, from coaxing more oil from the glands in Castiel’s wings, his hands full of it. “Cas, what am I doing?”

“You’re supposed to— _ah_ —groom them with it,” he pants; his grip strengthens, and Dean gasps, right into Castiel’s ear. “But we’ve been known to use it for—other reasons.”

“Like what?” He’s teasing now, merely riling Castiel up, all against his better instincts. For months, years maybe, if he’s counting, Dean has wanted Castiel like this, in his bed, in motel bathrooms, behind seedy bars—and now Dean has him, a ways away from camp and miles from civilization.

They’re alone, and he can do this—he can have Castiel, in every way he can.

Said way ends up being with Dean face down in the sand with Castiel towering over him, wings blocking out the sunlight overhead. Castiel’s knees bracket his own, and a single hand holds both of his wrists, pinning him into the shore. “You defile me,” Castiel hisses, lips close to Dean’s ear. “You touch me like you intend to ruin me.”

“Maybe I do,” Dean sputters, proud of himself; Castiel’s cock rubbing against his ass changes that, hard and incredibly thick, making his intent known. _Fuck, what did I get myself into_? “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“I think,” Castiel starts, audibly reaching back to slick his fingers with his own oil, “that if you intend to defile an Angel, then it’s my duty to reciprocate.” Warm fingers trace over his ass, dipping down to his rim; one sinks in to the knuckle, and Dean moans, pushing back against it. “Does that seem fair?”

“What’s not fair is you teasing,” Dean huffs, looking back over his shoulder. “Do it before I change my— _mind_.” A simple twist of his finger draws out the last word, and Dean just barely resists the urge to scream or to eat a mouthful of silt. “ _Cas_ , you…”

“Hush,” Castiel whimpers; he pulls out for a brief second, only to come back with more oil, dripping it thickly over Dean’s hole. “This may take a while.”

Just what Dean wants to hear—that he’s going to die before Castiel ever fucks him.

Nimble fingers stretch him open for what feels like hours, one twisting and stroking inside, merely feeling Dean out; meanwhile, Dean grabs at the sand and holds on. Frigid water laps around his chest and thighs, a sharp contrast to the current heat that’s circling through him, painting his skin red. “Cas,” he huffs, just as Castiel presses into his prostate with two fingers, as light as he possibly can.

“You tormented me for twenty minutes,” Castiel whispers, delving in deeper; Dean bites his lower lip. “I think it’s only fair to return the favor.”

“Not when— _Jesus, shit, don’t stop_ —you’re the one doing it.” Still, Dean arches his back and tilts his hips, urging Castiel in further, deeper; Castiel obliges him with another, all three soaked in oil, stretching him wide. Not nearly as thick as his cock, but hopefully it’ll be enough. “Cas,” he whines, cheek pressed into the shore. “Cas, want you—”

“As I recall, you were concerned over the size of my penis.” Castiel pulls out all too soon, leaving Dean empty and shaking, his thighs twitching. “Are you saying you can handle me?”

 _I probably can’t_ , Dean thinks; Castiel rubbing the head of his slick cock over his rim reiterates that, foreskin peeling back with every rough shove. Teasing, but Dean wants him inside, no matter how big he is. “I’ve gotten fucked by bigger,” Dean lies with a grin. In truth, Dean’s only been with one man only slightly smaller, and the only thing he can remember is coming so hard he saw stars. Castiel—and his knot, apparently—might break him. “Do you want me, Cas? Like this?”

It’s the question he’s been mulling over for years, if Castiel wanted him romantically, sexually—if Castiel loved him back, after all the lies, the deception, cold shoulders and the rest. Dean’s not exactly boyfriend material, and he’s not the nicest person in the universe—but despite his faults and despite hateful words shared in the dark, Castiel has always stayed, and Castiel has always touched him with reverence, with patience.

Castiel is his rock, and Castiel won’t leave him unless Dean tells him to, unless their love grows cold and Dean can’t bear to see his face and the pain he’s wrought any longer.

Gently, Castiel leans over and kisses his nape, the shell of his ear. “I’ve wanted you for longer than I can remember.”

When Dean picked up Marcus in Loredo, they’d been rushed, a quick fuck in Dean’s motel room while Sam was across town interviewing a particularly frightened witness. Enough prep to get by and a few passing kisses, and Marcus had shoved inside a little too fast, a little too rough. Dean never fully got used to the feel of him before Marcus fucked him close to blacking out, and in the days after, Dean never could quite sit right, shame burning him alive every time he got behind the wheel.

But Castiel is different. Castiel guides himself in slowly, stopping just as the head of his cock pushes past his rim. Just seeing him, Dean knew he was massive, but feeling him inside is a different story—he’s thick and pulsing, impressive in a way that sends heat straight to Dean’s cock, stomach twisting pleasantly. “Cas,” he whispers, shuddering as Castiel’s wings encompass them, the top bend of his wing digging into the sand. “ _Cas_ , you’re…”

“You’re doing good,” Castiel soothes; he rakes his fingers down Dean’s spine, earning another shiver.

Dean’s knees ache where he’s kneeling in the water, and his thighs shake when Castiel pulls back in small increments, only to shove back in, a gentle rock that takes his mind off the cold and the pain in his legs. Castiel pulls out in a long slide and reslicks himself, and this time, he slides in home, and Dean groans low in his throat, cock beginning to harden again. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, eyes slipping shut.

Because this—this is like nothing he’s ever experienced before. The intimacy, the closeness of Castiel to his back, the wings bearing down on him. Never once does Castiel let the water touch his face, nor does he attempt to move much more than necessary, all waiting for Dean to fully submit, to give Castiel the go-ahead.

Castiel kisses his nape in the interval, long, wet presses that send sparks across his skin. Idly, he thrusts once, purely testing the waters, and Dean moans when he pushes in, buried as far as he can; just barely, Dean can feel his knot when starts, fleshy and swollen and every bit a sin. Some perverse part of him wants to feel it, to have Castiel come and lock himself inside—and the part that shames him the most, is he’d let Castiel do it if he asked.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, warm and wet; his body moves sinuously against Dean’s, hips flush, both hands now clutching Dean’s hips. “Dean, can I…”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, whisper-quiet. Then, louder, more demanding, “ _Yes_ , Castiel.”

There’s no preamble once Dean gives in. Castiel holds onto his hips and thrusts, hard, hard enough for Dean to yelp and frantically grab for the sand. Not that it hurts—the opposite, actually; he’s thick enough to fill Dean where he needs it the most, stretching him wider than he’s ever thought possible. With Castiel’s every push, every shove in, Dean grows bolder, more daring; reaching back, he grabs hold of Castiel’s forearm and squeezes, all while moaning to his heart’s content. “Fuck, c’mon,” he huffs with a grin, barely visible in the shadow of Castiel’s wings. “C’mon, you’re holding back.”

“I’m not,” Castiel lies; Dean tightens around him, earning a snarl and a slap to his ass.

How much that spurs Dean on, Dean won’t ever tell him; instead, his body speaks for him, and Castiel takes turns thrusting and spanking him, all while the water churns underneath Dean, wetting his chin and several times almost going up his nose. Granted, this isn’t exactly a beach, but it’s fulfilling one of Dean’s most wild fantasies, and with Castiel, no less. The waves and the sand and the sunlight peeking through feathers, and no one around for miles, as long as Sam doesn’t get suspicious.

“Cas,” Dean whines, just as Castiel pulls out far enough to thrust in shallowly, the head of his cock brushing mercilessly against Dean’s prostate. Abandoned between his legs, his cock throbs, leaking precome into the water and dispersing. This is dirty—this is shameful and vile and Dean loves every second of it, and muffles his moans into the curve of his arm, his other hand fisting himself.

It’s then that he begs—out of his mind in pleasure, he begs, “Knot me,” in the most coherent voice he can muster. “Knot me, cas, c’mon, wanna—”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Castiel says, winded. That doesn’t stop him from crowding closer though, the arch of his wings digging in deeper, crunching; faintly, Dean can see the sand beginning to crystalize. “Dean, you don’t—”

“Fuckin’—You can’t get me pregnant, just do it,” Dean announces in haste. He’s not… whatever Castiel’s opposite is; he’s a human, and a human lacking the anatomy to get knocked up in the first place. “You can heal me after, just—”

Castiel shoves Dean’s face into the sand, thankfully his cheek shielded by his forearm. “You want me to mate you,” Castiel growls, hushed; Dean just nods, whining when Castiel thrusts deep, again, again, _again_. “You want me to keep you here and breed you, mate you until you’re mine.”

Another nod; this time, Dean pushes back, earning a startled hiss from Castiel. “Mate me,” Dean begs, tears in his eyes; he’s so close, he can taste it, can feel his body shake with the intensity. “Oh god, mate me, _please_ —”

Dean doesn’t come from Castiel’s knot catching—he comes from Castiel biting the curve of his throat, hard enough to draw blood but not enough to tear. White spills into his hand and into the water, and Dean gasps and bites into his arm to keep from screaming, from howling when it finally slips inside. If Castiel’s cock was big, his knot is even bigger, effectively tying them together while Castiel comes, warm and wet and, oddly enough, sating to Dean’s senses.

He just had sex—Dean just had sex with Castiel, and Castiel knotted him like some… Omega, if he had to put a name to it. Then Castiel is his Alpha; it has a nice ring to it, actually.

“Fuck,” Dean groans in the aftermath, just as the ache in his knees is becoming well more than apparent. In fact, everything aches, from his forehead to his toes, and especially the wound on his shoulder; his ass is an entirely different story. He’s never felt so full in his life, so complete. “Fuck, I think you broke me.”

Castiel spends a good minute mouthing away the blood from his bite, lips healing the wound and leaving behind a silvered scar; permanent, like the handprint. Except this time, he can see it, even in the shadows. “Nothing on earth could break you,” Castiel soothes.

Hands skate down Dean’s sides, long enough for Dean to feel Grace flow through him, muting his shivers and the sand burn and any embarrassing marks he’s gained in the encounter. Bless Castiel, really. “How long do you think we’re gonna be here for?” Dean asks, just as Castiel rears up, both hands taking Dean with him to press against his chest. His wings shield them, still, and Dean thanks him for the privacy; he doesn’t know if he could handle anyone seeing him like this, so vulnerable, legs splayed open and Castiel’s knot in his ass.

“Another ten minutes,” Castiel soothes; slowly, he skirts his fingers down Dean’s chest, resting just above his cock. Not touching, just simply resting, and Dean threads their fingers together, holding on tight. “I can last for more than an hour, but we’re running late.”

Dean snorts and wraps an arm around Castiel’s neck. “Next time then.” He turns his head, just as Castiel leans down to kiss his neck; their lips meet instead, wet and heated, and it’s everything Dean has ever wanted in his life. Next time, they can do this right; Dean can wine and dine and they can kiss under the stars, and spend the rest of the night under the sheets.

Next time, Dean intends to kiss him until his lips hurt, and they fall asleep in a tangled, spent heap—he can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is gonna be the last fic from me for a while aside from my DCBB! Not that I'm gonna stop, because I'm on a roll lately with writing, but I've finally figured out how to fix my first book and I'm gonna work on that for a bit (hopefully). But I hope you enjoy this! It's not what I wanted to write specifically (mostly Angel Dean) but I do love me some Angel ABO. 
> 
> My DCBB, "Doubting Thomas," posts on November 9th! The preview should be available either tomorrow or Tuesday!
> 
> If you ever have any prompts you'd wanna see, tweet me on Twitter!
> 
> Title is from the Enya song, "Even In The Shadows."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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